


Foreign Comforts

by Naina



Series: World of Comfort [2]
Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-09-19 17:11:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9451769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naina/pseuds/Naina
Summary: The Top Gear road trip specials from a World of Comfort viewpoint. Featuring lots of dust, sweat, foul stenches and far too little privacy.





	1. Uganda and Tanzania, 2012

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally unedited. Suggestions welcome.

The worst thing about Uganda so far, Richard thinks four days into their journey, hasn’t been the traffic in Kampala or the wretched motels. It’s zipping along the dirt tracks leading to Lake Edward, easy as anything in his Impreza, knowing every bounce is wrecking James’s back. 

 

Not that he doesn’t think the man sort of deserves it. They’d been given the same advice and warnings about terrain and weather, and made their own informed decisions. It wasn’t his fault May had uncharacteristically chosen a racing estate with low-profile tires and a ground clearance of two inches.

 

So while he didn’t exactly sympathize with James’ suffering, he does want to ease it. He can’t, though. Not here. Even if twenty crew members weren’t with them, there’s that zero-tolerance attitude toward anything remotely homosexual. It wasn’t likely the Ugandan rozzers were watching, ready to helicopter in if he tried to give his mate a back-rub, but he doesn’t want to find out.

 

* * *

 

James is soaking in a bath/Jacuzzi when Richard knocks on his door. James has put on a fluffy robe to let him in, goes back into the bathroom after. 

 

Richard lingers in the sitting area, unsure of what to do. He hears a drain opening, then closing, and then a tap. Splashing, and a very satisfied sigh. “James?”

“Eh?”

 

He doesn’t say ‘I’ve been itching to get my hands on you all bloody week’ or ‘I’m here to soothe your aching back’, though both are true. “What are you doing in there?”

 

“‘s a hot tub, man, what do you think I’m doing?”

 

It sounds like he says more, but it’s lost under the rumble of water jets. Since the bathroom door is open, he steps inside, almost gingerly. “Do you want me to go away?”

 

James’ head rests on the edge of the tub, eyes closed. His face is red from the heat and humidity on top of his tan, his hair curling and sticking to his skin. “Wouldn’t have let you in if I did.”

 

True. “You were practically hobbling at the end.”

 

“I’ll be fine.”

 

They’re both quiet for a minute. Perhaps he should come back later, Richard thinks, and takes a step backward.

 

“Rich?”

 

“Sorry, yes?”

 

“Did you want something?”

 

He shrugs. _To see you not in pain._ “Thought I’d make sure you were okay, see if there was anything I could do.”

 

“What, like a back rub?”

 

“If you’d like, sure.”

 

“Mm. That sounds good.” James opens his eyes and sits up carefully, shutting off the jets. “In my kit bag, there’s a tube of pain cream, can you get that? I’ll be right out.”

 

He does, and waits a little impatiently on James’ big hotel bed, barefoot and in his own freshly washed clothes. When James emerges, he’s wearing boxers and his hair is damp. Richard kneels up and touches his arm, prompting a low chuckle before they kiss. 

 

He’d shaved his rather sad example of a goatee earlier, now James’ beard rasps against his chin and filtrum. “That feels very strange.”

 

“What, this?” James points at his chin. “It’s staying, so you know.”

 

Richard touches the bright hairs. At the moment, they’re thick, short and rough, bristly. “No, that’s fine. Will it get softer?”

 

“Might. I haven’t let it get this long in years.”

 

He sits back on the bed. “I like it. It suits you.”

 

James lowers himself onto the bed carefully, moving stiffly despite his long soak. “Did you get the cream?”

 

“I did. Sorry, I’d forgotten what we were doing,” Richard admits. He squeezes some of the pain cream into his hands to warm it, and gently rubs it into the areas James dictates.

 

“Better?”

 

“Mmm. Don’t stop.”

 

For the areas that aren’t sore, he uses the complimentary lotion from the bathroom. He’s not a trained masseuse and doesn’t want to muck up James’ back any further, so he settles for long, slow strokes, lightly running his hands across his lover’s shoulders and down his sides. When he finishes, it’s to no protest from the drowsing May. He smiles, kisses a prickly cheek, and lies down beside him, spreading a light blanket over the both of them for a nap.

 

Less than an hour later, he wakes and sits up to stretch. James is still laid out just as he’d left him, the paleness of his body almost comical compared to his tanned face, neck and arms. He runs a hand over one shoulder, the skin cool and very slightly rough under his fingers; James makes a face and shifts onto his side.

 

“Hey. It’s almost seven.”

 

“So?”

 

“Dinner, remember? Real food at real tables, maybe some good drinks, even.”

 

Throwing an arm over his eyes, James flops onto his back. “Why can’t I just sleep instead?”

 

“Well, you can, but then you’d wake up famished at one in the morning and there’d be nothing to eat. I don’t think they have room service round the clock here.”

 

A sigh that’s almost a whine. “No Tesco? Spar?”

 

“Not that I noticed.” He rolls his eyes at the resulting noise - definitely a whine - and goes for a dirtier tactic.

 

“Ow! What the - ow!” James is at least sitting up now, arms crossed protectively over his chest. “Bugger off.”

 

Richard scoots off the bed and stands, making sure he has his key-card. “James. Get up. Get dressed. Come down to the restaurant. Two, maybe two and a half hours, then you can go back to bed. None of our group’s up for a late night.”

 

“And if I don’t?”

 

That’s a surprise. Richard looks back at him, unsure if James is just being ornery, or if there’s something more to this. “Are you ill?”

 

A frown and a shrug. “No.”

 

“If you skip the ‘thank god we survived that madness’ celebratory dinner, and don’t raise a glass to all the men who got us here? You’re asking what happens then?”

 

James is frowning and shaking his head. “Wait, that’s not-”

 

Richard holds up his hand. “Then you sleep alone tonight.”

 

James arrives in the restaurant a few minutes after him, his expression conveying ‘see what I do for you?’ across the crowded table. Jeremy snickers into his drink at Richard’s countering ‘see what I put up with?’

 

Back in his own room after the meal breaks up, Hammond undresses for bed feeling a bit nervous. What he’d said to James, earlier, about sleeping alone, that’s never happened before. There have been times when they’d had to reschedule or cancel plans to be together; kids get sick, plans change, cars break down, family things come up. It’s life, and they do their best to make up for it, but his threat (and there’s nothing else he can call it) was something entirely different: spiteful.

 

His phone beeps with a text: ‘it’s me’, and a moment later there’s a knock on his door. James waits on the other side, looking as shamefaced as Richard is feeling. As soon as the door closes, they both start speaking.

 

“I’m sor-”

 

“No, it’s my-”

 

“I was being a lazy arse-”

 

“It was stupid and spiteful-” 

 

Finally, Richard grabs James’s t-shirt and pulls him close for a hard kiss. “Right, so we were both stupid and foolish. It’ll never happen again, yeah?”

 

“Never,” James agrees.


	2. Myanmar, 2013

He’d had quite a lot to drink last night; more than he should, especially combined with the pain tablets for his wrist. Once the hangover faded, around mid-day, he could remember more of the party. Toasts given in broken English and even more broken Burmese. Girls in colorful skirts and twirling parasols. Their cameramen in the middle of a melee, beaming and holding their equipment aloft to record the boisterous action. Mostly, he remembers the music, and the men around him shouting and cheering the players on. James had been right in with the musicians, supporting one end of a gong’s frame and striking it with the mallet. His hips and shoulders shift with the beat, following it in a slow side-to-side bounce. 

 

It’s dusk, and difficult to see clearly between the spotlights. Most of the cameras have been stored for the night. He crouches by the railing of his viewing platform, fussing with the velcro of his bandage even as he calls down to James.

 

“Oi. May.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Come up when you’re done. I’ve got a better view.”

 

He hears a chuff of laughter. “Have you, now?” 

 

The sun is just a sliver of orange when May clambers up. Richard wastes no time, pushing away his single camp chair to sit on the deck with him. His palm touches a hot, reddened nape first, then settles on a shoulderblade. 

 

“I reek, Hammond.”

 

He's not exaggerating: they all stink of diesel fuel, old sweat and sun-cream. “Not that bad,” he responds, “Could be a lot worse.”

 

He catches a smile and sits up just enough to share a careful, quick kiss. 

 

“You were dancing, last night.”

 

“Yeah. Couldn’t help myself.” James leans into him, the dusty sleeve of his t-shirt blotting the sweat from Richard’s shoulder. “I know you like seeing me shake my booty.”

 

His peal of delighted laughter startles the hell out of the crew, judging by the curses coming from their cluster of tents. Not that he and James give a shit, taking a few spare minutes to kiss and grin at each other.

 

He dreams that night of upending a bucket of cool, clean water over James’ head and chest, sluicing away the dirt and sweat and cooling overheated skin.


	3. Patagonia, 2014

He’s vaguely aware of Richard coaxing him to stay still, voice as calming as the hand on his hip. The mic pack is digging into his lower back; when he tries to reach around to dislodge it, the pain redoubles, making him whimper through clenched teeth. Once their medic allows him to try and sit up, he does so, vision graying around the edges. Someone unclips the mic pack from his jeans. From the mutterings of the sound crew, he definitely landed on it and broke some components. Kiff, bless him, gets the mic itself removed without jostling him.

Three ribs have been cracked. He’s got painkillers and a stash of air-activated heat wraps that he uses during the day. In Ushuaia, while waiting for news (and while the crew leave), he allows Richard to calm his nerves by fussing over him, checking and rechecking the adhesives while Jeremy rolls his eyes. 

“Why don’t you ever get hurt on these trips, Clarkson?”

“I’m clearly the best driver, that’s why.” Jeremy turns away to make obscene hand gestures to the cameramen on Andy’s side of the room, and James has never wanted to kick him in the head so badly. 

“None of our injuries had to do with bad driving, and stop being so fucking childish,” Richard snaps. There’s a muffled yelp, then the bed dips as Richard settles beside him with a cup of water. James mumbles his thanks and contemplates tugging his hood up to shut Clarkson out.

“Christ, Hammond, did you pick those boots out purely based on how pointy the toes are?”

“Keep needling James and you’ll find out just how much damage they can do.”

Sensing the argument isn’t going to end soon, James sets the now-empty cup on the nightstand and pulls his hood up, retreating into its fuzzy comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While writing this chapter, I was under the impression that James is wearing a hoodie in the hotel room. Upon checking the video, I discovered he's not. Oh well. The image of him in a hoodie (like the one from ULancaster or the stripey blue one) Does Things for me and I'm not going to change it.


End file.
